Nation
by Bryher
Summary: One nation in the slavery of another. Five snapshots into Tristan’s life at Hadrian’s Wall. Slightly AU. Oneshot.


**Title:** Nation

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** One nation in the slavery of another. Five snapshots into Tristan's life at Hadrian's Wall. Slightly AU.

**Author's Notes:** This is a special dedication to TheKillerKitten, who requested a Tristan fic. Happy Belated Birthday!

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**I : **_Tristan is twenty-three, and has been at the wall for seven years. _

Summer rain on Hadrian's Wall reminded him of home. The light air that smelled of the damp was pierced with birdsong and the sound of children playing in the newly-formed puddles and muddy tracks in the roads.

Leaning back against the stable door post, Tristan closed his eyes and breathed. Hearing the sound of children nearing, he opened one eye warily. Having been caught out once by Bors' oldest, he wasn't about to make the same mistake when it came to excitable ten-year-olds and mud.

Foiled, the gaggle of tow-haired young ones ran for the orchards where they could climb the rain-slick trees and grasp at the fruits that nestled in the leaves.

A wry smile lifted the corners of Tristan's mouth as he straightened from his position, hearing the vertebrae in his back creak ominously. Avoiding the puddles, he followed the children from the gate, but then turned left toward the cemetery.

Children were the same all over the world, always thinking of new ways to cause havoc and have fun. It didn't matter where you were posted, where your path would take you, there would always be the same group of children who would cross the boundaries and mingle together.

Leaning against the fence surrounding the perimeter of the burial ground, the scout frowned, wrinkling the tip of his nose as a braid swung loose to tickle the end. It was when children became adults that the trouble began.

* * *

**II : **_Tristan is twenty-five and has been at the wall for nine years. _

The caldarium was deserted. Mist from the hot pool floated just above the surface, eerily lit by the torches that glowed through the steam. Tristan moaned as he slid his bloodied body into the waters, dirt and blood sliding from his aching limbs. Ignoring the burn of his newly-stitched wounds in the hot water, Tristan stretched his arms and legs out and floated.

The trip had been short and brutal. Why Arthur had agreed to take a Roman Diplomat from one post to another had- at first, been a mystery to him. As soon as the Woads descended, it became apparent why. The Roman soldiers accompanying Senator Aurelius Capula had panicked at the sight of the blue-painted Woads and scattered, leaving the Sarmatian knights to defend the carriage at the centre of the party. Dimly, Tristan could hear the voices of the others in the tepidarium as Dagonet tended to various wounds before they would- inevitably, invade his peace.

While the Senator lived, the Sarmatians had taken the brunt of the attack. Three of their number lay dead in the infirmary awaiting burial, and more than half of them were injured in some way.

Pulling himself up into a sitting position as wet footsteps padded across the floor, Tristan lounged idly against the side of the pool as Gawain eased himself into the waters.

"How's your arm?" the younger knight asked.

Glancing down at the cut on his bicep, Tristan shrugged. "I'll live."

"Can't say the same for Kay, Bedivere and Melot," Gawain murmured quietly, studying his large hands. Tristan said nothing, amber eyes reflecting the flickering torchlight.

"What Empire is an Empire when it needs other nations to fight for it?" Gawain continued, looking at the older man questioningly.

"I don't know," Tristan replied honestly, voice even. "But it isn't a strong one."

* * *

**III : **_Tristan is thirty, and has been at the wall for fourteen years. _

Amber eyes watched as villagers dashed in and out of the downpour, trying to shield themselves against the summer storm. The air was hot, almost stifling in the weather. Stripped to his breeches, Tristan had thrown open his shutters in an attempt to pull some kind of a breeze into his room. Resting his bare forearms on the stone window ledge, he watched Gawain and Galahad sparring in the yard with wooden swords to stave off the lightening.

Mostly, Tristan kept to himself now. There were only a few that could coax him from the solitude he preferred when the rains came, and they were sleeping in the hill outside the fort with so many of their kind.

Leaning his chin on his palm, Tristan watched as droplets splashed back up from the ground, such was the force of the storm. Thunder rumbled ominously in the mountains, a threatening warning to those who might have thought to tarry outside.

Roman soldiers stood on the walls, their cloaks flashing crimson against the skies. Like blood in the dirt, swirling against the tide. Tiredness dogged his bones, pulling at his eyelids in an invitation to sleep. With a yawn, Tristan pulled himself away from the window and dropped onto his cot, lithe limbs flung out in an attempt to coax the non-existent breeze across his naked chest.

Wearily, he thought of the Romans stood out on the perimeter walls, and wondered why they would stand guard, but would not fight their own battles.

* * *

**IV : **_Tristan is thirty-six, and has been at the wall for twenty years. _

Lifting his daughter onto the table, Tristan examined the scraped knee. "It'll be fatal if we don't take the leg off," he gravely told Ylenne. The five year old scowled.

"Ma said you shouldn't lie."

Tristan smiled softly, lips only slightly turning up at the corners. "Did she?"

Ylenne nodded, trying to jump down. Tristan held her steady as she wriggled away from him. "I need to clean it," he murmured, stilling her with gentle fingers under the chin. Her serious, sky-blue eyes stared back up at him. "Is this another lie?" she asked suspiciously.

Tristan chuckled. "No, Ylenne. It isn't a lie."

As he cleaned the scraped flesh, his daughter wriggled, but did not cry or protest. Instead, she sat with her hands clamped under her backside, biting her lips as her eyes stared straight ahead. Carefully, Tristan wiped away the traces of dirt and blood. How many times had he done this for his brothers in arms? How many lives had ended in the dirt outside that Ylenne now so freely played in with Bors' children and Gawain's brats?

Finished with his job, Tristan lifted Ylenne down. "I can go?" she asked, gleefully. Tristan nodded.

With a grin just like her mother's, she dashed back out into the sunshine, hair streaming behind her.

"She's getting more like you everyday," a quiet voice murmured. Turning, Tristan studied his wife in the door to their bedchamber, expression serious. Aamor frowned and closed the distance between them, lifting a gentle hand to his cheek. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Tristan replied, taking her hand from his cheek and kissing it with soft lips. "I just don't want her to be like me."

* * *

**V: **_Tristan is forty-seven, and has been at the wall for thirty-one years. _

"Da?"

Tristan turned and frowned. Ylenne and Gawain's eldest son, Felan, stood in the yard outside, hands tightly clasped. He glared at Aamor, who shrugged. "Be calm," she advised. "You knew this was coming, and she has your temper." When Tristan continued to glare, his wife sighed and abandoned her needlework. Grasping his hand, she led the famed scout outside to face their daughter and her impending betrothal.

***

The night was calm and quiet, with only a slight breeze to stir the woods. Tristan stroked Aamor's slightly damp hair away from her neck, pressing his lips to the skin greedily. Stirring, she chuckled quietly. "No more," she whispered, wriggling in his arms. "I'm spent, Tristan." He grinned wolfishly, nipping her gently before laving over it with his mouth. Aamor laughed then, turning in his arms. "You're a bad man," she teased, pressing her fingers against his lips to stop him capturing her own. "But I'm proud of you." Tristan pulled one finger into his mouth teasingly, shooting her a questioning glance as he slid his tongue over the tip of the digit.

"For today," Aamor explained, freeing her fingers before kissing him deeply. After a few moments, Tristan pulled back, and frowned. "Explain?"

"You didn't do any of the things Ylenne expected," Aamor whispered as Tristan pulled her closer, their faces inches apart, noses touching at the tip. "Or any of the things I expected, for that matter."

"Would these things include the murder of a certain father and son?" Tristan whispered in reply, an amused glint in his amber eyes. Aamor said nothing, twitching her nose in an attempt not to laugh.

Tristan shook his head and said seriously, "It wouldn't have been murder. Only a slight thrashing."

Aamor laughed, fingers playing over the scar he had received from the Saxon King. Grasping her fingers in his own larger ones, Tristan kissed her roughly, his other hand winding into her hair. Once they had broken apart, breathing hard, Tristan smoothed his wife's hair back gently. "We fight our own battles in this nation," he murmured, "but not against one another."

Fin.

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**Appendix: **

Caldarium: The hot pool of a Roman Bath House.

Tepidarium: the warm room of a Roman Bath house- not unlike a steam room.

Ylenne: pronounced _Ee-lenn_.

Aamor: pronounced _Ah-mor_.

Felan: pronounced _Phelan.

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Please review.


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